


Chosen, But Not Wanted

by Eilinelithil



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), Stargate Universe
Genre: A Monthly Rumbelling (Once Upon a Time), Angry Sex, F/M, Rushbelle, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22781743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eilinelithil/pseuds/Eilinelithil
Summary: Rush needs a linguist to help on the Ninth Chevron Project. Belle doesn't necessarily want a new job, she learns the 'hard way' not to tell Nick Rush that he's wrong.Written for the February Monthly Rumbelling image prompt (Nicholas Rush leaning against a chalk board with a cup of coffee in his hands)
Relationships: Belle (Once Upon a Time)/Nicholas Rush
Comments: 14
Kudos: 28





	Chosen, But Not Wanted

He had admired her for some time… from a distance of course, but then, no, because admiration suggested a level of engagement that he simply didn’t possess, or want in regard to this woman. Respect then. He had respected her for some time… but again, no, because to respect her would of necessity elevate her to his level of intelligence and application, and to be frank, he doubted she would even come close. Liked her? No, he didn’t know the girl… and at the thought he did somehow, mentally acknowledge that she had made several notable achievements for someone of such a tender age as she, but still - that didn’t make her the one he’d need to succeed in the project. No, it all still wasn’t right, and it was frustrating him that he couldn’t easily categorize her, or understand his need to.

He did need to, though, he conceded, perhaps if for no other reason than to set boundaries between them; to let them each know where they stood when they began working together on uncovering how to dial the Ninth Chevron, and so he returned to the irritating conundrum that was categorizing his feelings about, and his potential relationship with Belle French.

* * *

She received the first telephone call while she was in the shower, after a particularly hard run, and she’d been running to try and clear out the anger and sense of utter betrayal, and the frustration at everything that had happened since she’d caught her boyfriend of several years fucking one of his office secretaries, and not only that, but in  _ their  _ bed.

It wasn’t the first time she’d caught him cheating, but it had been nothing like that. That time he’d just had his tongue half way down the woman’s throat and his hands in some places they hadn’t ought to be. They’d fought… for days, but in the end she had given him another chance. His last.

Which was why she found herself in a shower, in a Motel 6 close to the university campus, listening to the phone ring, again, and wondering if she should bother getting out to answer it. She decided not to. It was probably only that sniveling worm calling again to try and get her to listen to his ‘heartfelt’ apology for his lapse, and empty promises that he wouldn’t ever do it again. Either that, or her goddamn father who refused to keep his nose out and had sided with Aston; told her to go back to him, that she didn’t know a good thing when she had it, and if - of all the thing to say to her, this had made her the most incensed - if she hadn’t been so wrapped up with all the work for her Doctorate, and her job afterwards, he wouldn’t have felt so neglected and looked elsewhere for what he needed.

The ensuing argument she’d had with her father had made her realize many truths that she’d been hiding from herself, if she were to be completely honest. Things between herself and Aston had been over for a long time. She was just too stuck in her ways to have moved on.

Either way, she was not talking to either of them, so stepped back into the stream of water, turning her face up to its cascade to let its caress wash away her tears of self recrimination and disappointment.

* * *

“Maybe she’s one of those people that doesn’t answer her phone if it’s a number she doesn’t recognise,” O’Neill suggested as their call went to voicemail for the second time.

Rush shook his head. “Try again,” he said.

“Doctor Rush…”

“Again!” he insisted, and looked pointedly at General O’Neill until he hit the redial on the phone.

‘You know,” O’Neill said, and looked up at him as they listened to the phone ringing. “There are more language experts in the US than just this one.”

Rush stared at O’Neill, thinking that for a man who had dealt with hostile aliens and other dangerous situations where dealing with the unknown hinged on having the people with the best skills in the right place at the right time, he was being particularly short sighted. He opened his mouth to say something of the sort, though he was sure it would come out in a more colorful and expressive manner, when the ringing on the other end ceased abruptly, and this time was not replace by the sedate and polite voicemail message they’d listened to the first time, when they left Doctor French a message.

_“Listen, you utter cockshite,”_ the woman on the other end of the phone was clearly agitated, and while O’Neill blinked at the greeting, Rush found himself both intrigued, and somewhat impressed by the ferocity of her ire, _“this is bordering on harassment! For the last time, I’m not interested in your fucking excuses, and definitely don’t want your apologies. I’m not interested in_ _ any of your bullshit frankly, so leave. Me. Alone.” _

Rush watched O’Neill swallow, and then take a deep breath before the General said, “Doctor French?” Silence. “Doctor French, this is General Jack O’Neill, United States Air Force, and I have Doctor Nicholas Rush with me. You’re on speaker. There’s a matter we’d like to discuss with you.”

* * *

Belle clasped the towel more tightly around herself, her hair dripping down her back as she listened with growing disbelief to the complete crap Aston was spouting in an effort to get her to speak with him.

When his sad performance came to an end, Belle - trembling slightly from more than the fact that she was standing dripping wet in nothing but a towel in a motel room that wasn’t exactly the warmest place on Earth - spat back, “Fuck you, Aston! Seriously, if that’s all you’ve got, then fuck you to hell!” and pressed the button to cut the call.

She threw the phone down onto the bed, following it a moment later and covering her face with her hands, breathing in deeply to try and regain her composure. She had to get herself dressed, and ready for work, and she couldn’t show up at the university as agitated as she was. It wouldn’t be fair to her students.

Having partly recovered enough to go and finish her shower, she stood up and headed back to the bathroom. Hardly able to believe the ridiculous the lengths to which Aston was going to try and get her attention, she climbed back into the shower, and turned it on as hot as she could stand it, and ten minutes later, her skin pink and tingling, she stepped out again, feeling clean and cleansed, and more than ready to face the rest of the day… the rest of her life, for while in the shower she had determined that she would not waste another minute of her time on getting upset over what her ex had put her through, and if her father wanted to take his side, then she’d have nothing more to do with him either.

She was taking back her life and no one was going to stop her.

She opened the closet, and searched through her dresses to try and find the one she wanted to wear: a blue, mid-length dress with a flared skirt, fitted, low cut bodice all with a lacy overlay. The outfit would serve her perfectly, and along with the soft lace underwear caressing her skin, she felt feminine and strong, both at the same time.

Today, she was determined she would set the stuffy academic world of the ancient and modern languages department on its head.

* * *

“Well…”

That was all that O’Neill had to offer to him as Miss French hung up on them, and Rush made a face and said dryly, “Well, she’s certainly mastered the vernacular.”

O’Neill chuckled at that, and waving a hand asked, “And this is the woman you want on your team?”

“General O’Neill,” Rush explained patiently, “Mathematics is just another language, and unless or until  _ someone _ manages to crack the code written into the computer game we released into the ‘wild,’ or however it was that your technicians named that godforsaken cesspit that is the World Wide Web, she’s the best we have. Not to mention that having someone else around that could help to parse the Ancient we have on file would help to alleviate a massive time suck that has been delaying our progress. Her affinity for language makes her the ideal candidate.”

“What a ringing endorsement,” O’Neill said dryly, then sighed, “All right. I’ll make a call, have someone local pick her up and we’ll transport her here for a face to face.”

“No,” Rush said quickly, and breathed out harshly down his nose, and O’Neill raised an eyebrow at his objection and his tone. Then slightly more conciliatory Rush added, “If the General Hammond can spare the time, I’ll go.”

“You know damn well she’s assigned to the Icarus, Rush,” O’Neill said. “What game are you playing? Why not just wait for Doctor French to listen to her voicemail and figure out that our call was genuine and--”

“Because  _ you  _ know damn well,” Rush said, suddenly becoming agitated in his insistence, “that we’re running out of time.”

O’Neill sighed, and then standing, held up a hand in what Rush supposed was a placating gesture. “All right,” he said, “but I’m coming with you.”

* * *

Rather than let the news agitate her when she discovered that her lecture had been moved from the Arts and Humanities building to the Physics department, of all places, due to an equipment malfunction in her regular lecture hall, Belle took the news in her stride, and after making sure there were notes to her students stuck on both her office door, and the lecture hall, she enjoyed the short sojourn out in the California sunshine across the campus to the science building.

She couldn’t help but chuckle to herself just a little as she crossed the no-mans-land into ‘enemy territory’ and more than a few heads began to turn. After a few moments of it she began to wonder whether she should be flying a white flag as she came.

It wasn’t until she actually reached the lecture hall that the first groan of the day - since leaving her motel room, of course - momentarily escaped her small frame as she saw the man who was down in the pit of the hall, leaning against a chalkboard that was covered in formulae, cradling a cup of what smelled like strong coffee in long fingered hands. He was dressed in dark, belted jeans, a coordinating olive green t-shirt and vest combination, worn over a long sleeved white undershirt, the sleeves of which were pushed up to the middle of his forearms. His hair was long, and he had a scruffy beard, shot through - she could see as she descended the steps toward him - with gray. He looked as though he was either miles away in thought or waiting for something, and bored, very  _ very _ bored.

“I’m sorry,” she called out to him, trying not to sound as irritated as she was becoming. “Excuse me, but I think there’s been some kind of a mistake.”

He looked up at her then, and she thought she saw his eyes widen in what could have been surprise, before they narrowed again to the same, sardonic stare as she’d noticed in them when she first drew near enough.

“No,” he said “I don’t think so.”

He had an accent, a brogue that set a warmth somewhere inside of her at its depth and at the heat of it, even in so mild a disavowal. She pushed it aside - or tried to, but had to confess that now that she was closer, and the full realization of his appearance, and intellectual presence hit her, she could not deny the early stirring of attraction toward this stranger.

“Oh, really?” she said, coming to a halt and folding her arms across her breasts. “And how do you figure that?”

She expected him to insist that the college had told him that the hall would be his that morning, and that she would just have to take up another space for her lecture. Instead he said, “Belle French, isn’t it?”

She blinked, and then her heart skipped. He didn’t look like a cop, and even if he were, she’d done nothing to anticipate a police officer would be confronting her in her place of work in any case, unless…

“My father...!” she squeaked, worry starting to build in her chest.

“Moe French?” the man asked, and before she could even nod her confirmation, he went on, “Useless waste of space by all accounts. You on the other hand--”

“I  _ beg _ your pardon!” she snapped, even though she couldn’t fault this stranger and shared his opinion, she wasn’t about to let him stand there and bad mouth her papa. But it seemed he could read her mind.

“Oh, come now, Miss French,” he scoffed with brittle, dry sarcasm, “Let’s not start lying to one another  _ now _ . You have a very low opinion of your father.”

“That may be true,” she admitted curtly, “but that doesn’t give you free reign to speak ill of him. If there’s any of that to be done,  _ I’ll _ be the one to call him out.” The stranger sighed, and bristling still further, she demanded, “Who the hell  _ are _ you anyway?”

“Rush,” the man said. “Doctor Nicholas Rush.”

For several minutes the name meant nothing to her, other than a nagging feeling that she’d heard or seen it somewhere before. So, instead of reacting to the name she said, in the same irritated tone, “And I suppose you’re going to tell me that this is  _ your  _ lecture hall, and that I’m going to have to go find some place else?”

“It used to be mine, but not any more,” he said, starting to peel himself from the chalkboard, and walking her way for just a couple of steps.

“Used to be?” she snapped, her already short temper shortening still further.

“I used to work here,” he said as though it were obvious.

“Well, I’m sure this little tour of nostalgia is all well and good,” she told him, “but I’m due to give a lecture in here in…” she looked at her watch and frowned when she saw it was actually past time for her lecture to begin, and there was not a single student in sight.

“There won’t  _ be _ a lecture, Miss French,” he said, setting his coffee cup down on the desk and standing facing her, his fingertips resting lightly on a manilla folder that lay on the top of the desk.

“No lecture?” she snapped, “What--”

“Your students have been told that you’re feeling unwell and--”

“How  _ dare _ you!” she tried to interject, but he just continued talking.

“--my friend and I would very much like to have a word with you, if you don’t mind. It  _ is  _ rather urgent.”

It was only when he moved from the shadows at the side of the room that she noticed the other man in the room. He was taller, older, his hair more gray, and short cropped in a typical military hair style. He was clean shaven, with a serious expression on his face, but the thing that caught her attention, and made her cheeks flush in sudden remembrance was the dark blue uniform he wore, over a crisp white shirt, and darker tie, and the number of decorations attached to the front left hand side of his jacket.

He approached her without speaking until he stood to her side, his hat tucked under his left arm, his right extended toward her offering a handshake.

“General Jack O’Neill,” he said “United states Air Force. We spoke earlier on the phone.”

His words made her blush deepen as she recalled the words that had fallen from her mouth during that call. She took his hand and looked from him to where Doctor Rush still stood with his fingers on the folder on top of the folder.

“I am  _ so _ sorry,” she stuttered, looking between them again.

“No matter,” Rush said as O’Neill drew back his hand, “I’ve been called worse.” He offered her a brief, wry smile. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking a look at this for me.”

As he spoke, he pushed the folder in her direction and then removed his fingers as she hesitantly reached for it.

“What is it?” she asked.

“You tell me,” he answered.

Frowning, she opened the folder, and began to look through the photographs inside. Every single one of them showed groups of symbols of varying lengths. Some of the symbols had a verisimilitude to the symbols of other languages and cultures she’d seen before, one or two of which she could decipher, given time, if not clearly read, Sumerian for example, or Aramaic, even Sanskrit, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what, or why it felt so very familiar to her.

She turned one photograph first one way, and then the other, her quick mind starting to see patterns in the arrangement, consonantal clusters interspersed with other symbols, which it was safe to assume could be vowels, but  _ if _ \- like many semitic languages - this was also as consonantal language that couldn’t necessarily be assumed.

She didn’t realize she had been speaking her thoughts aloud until Doctor Rush softly cleared his throat, and reached to take the folder and photographs from her hands, and nodded to General O’Neill.

“Doctor French,” O’Neill said quietly, “Would you mind coming with us? Somewhere we can actually discuss this matter a little more openly… fill you in on one of two… details that--”

“Well,” Belle hedged. She knew she should be able to trust someone in a USAF uniform, but Rush… well, it seemed odd to her that such a man would be in the company of an Air Force general, but at the same time, she  _ really _ wanted another look at those photographs. Eventually she sighed.

“Give me a moment to get my jacket and my purse.” she said.

“That won’t actually be necessary,” O’Neill said softly, “And I assure you, we’ll drop you back once we’re done.”

“Or send someone to gather your things,” Rush added, and she looked at him, unable to stop the glare from fixing on him at his presumptuousness.

Again, she sighed, and this time threw up her hands, “Fine, fine,” she said, mostly to the general. “Lead the way.”

She watched as a knowing smirk curved Rush’s lips, and he folded his arms as O’Neill tapped what looked like some kind of bluetooth device at the side of his face, close by his ear. A small frown drawing down her brows as suddenly the world around her whited out.

It wasn’t exactly an unpleasant sensation. One moment she was standing in the lecture hall beside Doctor Rush and General O’Neill, and the next… surrounded by the most intense light she could imagine, which slowly faded, leaving spots floating in the air before her eyes, the way they would after looking too long at the sun without shades on, but around her, as her vision refocussed, she saw the darkened, blue lit, gray interior of… well… she couldn’t figure out what she was seeing, nor where she was.

A sudden wave of dizziness swept over her, and she staggered slightly as she tried to straighten herself before the warmth of slender but strong arms slipped around her to grasp both her upper arms supportively and in the next moment, warm breath passed over the space beside her ear, and Rush’s voice, low and with a hint of amusement purred in her ear.

“I find that closing your eyes helps with that,” he said, making no move to let go, which, given that she had, almost on instinct, half turned his way and was clutching at his vest and one of his arms, was likely as much her fault as anything else.

* * *

Rush sensed that her equilibrium was off almost before she began to stagger, and he recalled that the experience had taken him in a similar fashion the first time he’d been transported aboard one of the Asgard ships. His reflexes being what they were, he unfolded his arms, and wrapped them around Doctor French, steadying her as soon as it happened. He wasn’t usually drawn to such acts of chivalry, but something he’d seen in French’s face as she studied the photographs made at least a part of him - the part that grew protective of people on his team, people under him - want to take care of her.

He found himself taken by surprise when she grasped the font of his vest and began clinging to one of his arms, almost pressing herself against him as if seeking refuge. So he leaned closer to murmur in her ear that it might be helpful to close her eyes the next time. He didn’t put it quite like that thought, being the man he was, and it came out both entirely more sexually than he intended, and with a half a dose more snark. She clutched him tighter, and he felt himself respond to that in ways he hadn’t anticipated, a thrill of heat going through him to find a home centered in his loins. He felt the pulse of it between his thighs, and the beginnings of a stirring that would have been highly visible in the tight jeans that he had worn that day.

“Welcome aboard the USS George Hammond,” O’Neill said cheerfully, like a man showing off a prized automobile from his collection, giving Rush a moment to disengage himself from the woman in his arms, at least enough that she wasn’t pressed against the length of him. She still held, limpet-like, to his arm.

“USS…” French said, and swallowed hard, “Like… like a ship you mean.”

“Something like that,” O’Neill said. “In orbit though, not on the ocean.”

Rush watched her pale, and thought for a moment he was going to have to grab a hold of her again, but this time the color draining from her face preceded the next moment when a wave of color and heat rose just as rapidly to her cheeks, and she turned from Rush - though still had not let go of his arm - to face O’Neill, and seemed to let him have it, both barrels, right between the eyes.

“Are you out of your  _ mind! _ ” she snapped, “First of all you take it on yourself to cancel my lectures for the day,  _ then _ you kidnap me, and now you’re trying to tell me that--!”

Her words cut off abruptly as Rush shifted slightly, and since she was still clinging to his arm, she turned with him so that there was no way she would miss, even if it were from the corner of her eyes, the sight of Earth beneath them through the view screen of the Hammond’s bridge.

“I understand it’s a lot to take in…” O’Neill began, but French’s color had drained again, and suddenly letting go of Rush’s arm she stumbled away, looking around wildly, until one of the crew directed her to the nearest head.

Rush sighed. If she was going to be of any use at all, she was going to have to get with the program pretty damn quick. He exchanged a sour look with O’Neil when the general said cheerfully, “That went well.”

* * *

Belle sat with her head in her hands, elbows on the table in the mess hall, an a cup of brown liquid that passed for tea aboard the ship cupped between her hands. She finally seemed to have found her equilibrium, but that didn’t really make her feel any better, because she felt she’d made such a fool of herself that there would be no coming back from it.

Footsteps approaching, and then the sound of a file folder sliding across the table toward her made her lift her head, to see Doctor Rush taking a seat opposite her.

“Don’t feel too badly,” he said by way of greeting. “You took it better than most people.”

“And of course, you never thought of doing something sensible, like,  _ warning _ someone?” she said letting more than a hint of pique show in her voice.

Rush gave her a grin that bordered on manic or feral, before he said, “I was never one to coddle my students, staff, or members of my team.”

“I’m not  _ any _ of those things,” she snapped, and he shrugged a little.

“No, but you will be,” he said.

“Arrogant son-of-a-bitch, aren’t you?”

Again, he shrugged, “I prefer ‘confident,’ but as I said earlier, I’ve been called worse.”

“Telling me what I’ll do is  _ not  _ confidence,” she said. “That’s up to me, no one else, and  _ certainly _ not you.”

“You underestimate me, Miss French,” he said. “Plus… I saw your expression when you saw the photographs. Besides which, I wouldn’t take you for someone to pass up a challenge.”

“You--” She began, meaning to reiterate just what she thought of him. Her irritation rose, though at the same time she felt another, uncomfortably familiar feeling flush through her.

“Perhaps you’d like to take another look,” he said, sliding the file folder closer to her, though he kept his hand on top of it.

She met his eyes, hers narrowed, and bristled still further at the smirk she saw in his. He  _ knew _ he had her interest. She’d given herself away and he was using it to lord it over her.. Damn the man, but worse - and she hoped he hadn’t caught her out in this as well - she couldn't help but find him attractive. In spite of his scruffy appearance, and his two or three day growth of stubble, his eyes were darkly brooding and full of mystery, and the verbal sparring they were engaged in was filling her with an ache of want that would be a lie to deny to herself. Add to all of that the old cliche that smart was sexy, and she knew she was in big trouble.

However, she’d be  _ damned  _ if she was going to let the arrogant bastard dictate what she was going to do.

“Why me?” she demanded, letting her tone speak of her annoyance as she set down her tea.

He shrugged. “Of all the profiles I read while searching for a language specialist, yours was by far the most… robust.” she opened her mouth to question his words, but he continued, “and I’d heard of you; read one of your papers. Seemed like you’d be a reasonable fit for the team.”

“Reasonable--” she spluttered. “Oh, my god, seriously?” She felt like picking up her now lukewarm tea and throwing it in his face. “With that warm a recommendation you expect me to just… what? Fall at your feet like some adoring groupy?”

“Just read the file,” he said, his tone more of an order, not a request. He lifted his hand from atop it, and climbed to his feet. “Bring it back to me when you’re done. Deck 4 Starboard 9.”

Belle spluttered again, while trying to come up with the words to tell him in no uncertain terms that she would do  _ no _ such thing, but he didn’t wait for her to find them. He simply turned and left the mess hall. She didn’t move until he was out of sight, but then reached out to pull the file the rest of the way over, and flipped open the cover.

* * *

Rush lay on the bed in his quarters, his feet bare, one knee raised, one arm thrown over his face, taking a rare few moments of rest.

Never mind that all the way back to his quarters from the mess hall, he’d thought of nothing but the look of angry challenge he’d seen in Belle French’s eyes as he told her that she would be on his team. He maintained that. He had seen her hunger as she’d studied the photographs of the Ancient text they’d found, that he believed had bearing on the Ninth Chevron Project… and dear  _ God _ she was beautiful, even more so when she was trying  _ not _ to be pissed at him.

He moaned softly at the faint stirrings of feelings that he hadn’t had since well before Gloria died; since he’d repeatedly pushed people away so that he wouldn’t betray her memory, but with Belle… He found himself wondering how that anger he’d seen in her might be translated to passion; how her resolve might fuel her need, further  _ his _ need to involve her in more than just his team on the Ninth Chevron Project, but not wanting to give in to to such wanton imaginings, he rolled over onto his belly, burying his head beneath the pillow.

_ Fucking  _ hell _ I need to sleep! _

* * *

The more she read, the more Belle became excited, invested, and the more these feelings grew, the more annoyed she became with Rush for his arrogance, and the knowing smirk he wore on his face, but most of all because, goddamn the man, he was  _ right  _ about her!

She frowned then. Sooner or later she was going to have to tell him; accept his  _ invitation _ … not that it was an invitation, more of an expectation. She suspected that was something that rubbed quite a few people up the wrong way, and that he wasn’t a man to ‘play well with others,’ as the saying went. The intensity of the man probably put a lot of people off. A sudden blush rose to her cheeks as, sitting back in her chair, she saw his eyes, the amber-browns staring, remembered the way the long digits of his slender hands fingered his full lips as he’d watched her. She bit her lip, closing her eyes and letting out a long breath down her nose to try and push away the tingling ache that was starting to heat her core. She stifled a moan, trying to distract herself, forcing her mind to sort through the Ancient symbology she’d been studying only moments before her rebellious mind led her astray; numbers, letters and the words she’d parsed from all she’d seen swimming in her mind - though doing little to cool her need.

It was then it hit her…

* * *

At first he thought it was his alarm, and he reached out to his bedside to try and silence it, but only moments later the sound came again, and still groggy from sleep, he rolled over and sat up, running a hand through his hair to try and tame it a little. The sound of the door chime came again, and climbing to his feet he padded toward the door, grumbling to whoever it was to wait.

He palmed the console to open the door, and came immediately awake as if someone had just emptied a bucket of cold water over his head, and he couldn’t help glancing at himself to make sure he was decent. He was sure he had been dreaming.

French was standing in his doorway, almost bouncing with impatience, and looked up at him expectantly.

“Miss French,” he said by way of greeting, and stepping aside slightly, gestured to her to come in.

“That’s Doctor French, and...” she said as she brushed past him, filling his awareness with the scent of her perfume, subtle notes of vanilla and rose that seemed as aroused as she herself appeared to be. Mentally he shook himself for his choice of words, but no other seemed to fit.

He palmed the door control again, and turned to face her, just as she slapped the file folder against his chest, and uttered the only two words in the entire English language that were guaranteed to get him riled.

“You’re wrong.”

His face darkened, and catching the file folder by the corner he folded his arms across his chest and leaned indolently against the door he had just closed.

“Oh really?” he said. When she didn’t immediately answer, he added, “I don’t think so.”

She stepped toward him again then, her eyes as hard as ice and she snatched back the folder, opening it to take out a photograph, waving it in front of his face as she said, “If you translate this strictly according to the matrix and existing lexicon you’ve compiled, there are parts of it that make no sense. So there’s an error, and it’s  _ here _ .” she held the photograph still for a moment to point to a section of the image. “This section… these letters.”

He snatched the photograph from her fingers and peered at it, hard, before glancing up at her and back down at the photograph.

“And given that some of those characters are number placeholders, I would imagine that’s why your math is off too.”

“My math is--” Rush spluttered, then his voice turned darker as he said, “Oh, I assure you, Miss French there is absolutely  _ nothing _ wrong with my calculations.”

“ _ Doctor _ French,” she hissed, “And there  _ is _ if the numbers you're working with are the wrong ones.”

He thrust the photograph back into the file folder that he pulled from her hands, and tossed the whole thing toward the bed. Then rounded on her again, his voice hard as he spoke.

“You have the audacity to walk in here--” he began, but it seemed she was not for being chastened, and as her own anger flared, filling her eyes with the rare beauty of life and passion, he felt his anger shifting toward need, arousal stirring in him.

“Audacity?” she snapped, taking a step toward him. “You  _ brought  _ me here, insisted, as I recall, that I was going to join your team--”

“And it seems that I was right,” he cut across her objection, stepping toward  _ her _ as she had to him, nodding toward the file that had spilled its contents over the top of the covers. Spread there as he was suddenly almost desperate to spread her open… lose himself to his reawakened passion.

“I didn’t have a lot of choice!” she all but growled at him, and taking another step his way and seemingly in frustration pushed at him, her small hands like brands on his chest. “I don’t--”

He grasped her wrists, tugging her closer and trapping her arms between them, and she gasped as he did, cutting off what she’d been saying. He dipped his head, crushing his mouth to hers, unable not to, her inner fire calling to him. She stiffened, but only for a heartbeat, before she opened to his kiss, kissing him back with equal want - equal passion even as she tried to wrest her hands from his tight grasp.

She tasted sweet. Like summer and honey, and he moaned, turning them, pushing them up against the door, and released her hands, pressing the length of his body to hers, already hard. She ran her fingers into his hair, pulling his head back as she tore her mouth from his, her breathing labored, and began nipping along his stubble covered jaw and neck. He trailed his hand down over her, cupping her breast through her tight fitting bodice, the lacy overlay rough against his palm where her peaked nipple pushed it against him.

She moaned, her hands slipping from his hair to tug at his shirt, her fingers seeking skin as he released her breast, his fingers sliding down over her hip, beneath the skirt, and climbing again in a heated caress against her thigh, tugging at her legs to encourage her to part them.

* * *

Belle felt dizzy with the taste of his skin, salt and sweet and bitter, all at the same time, like cinnamon sugar. She gasped as she felt his fingers on her thigh, the light pull of his hand against her leg, and she stood on tiptoes, as she slipped her arms around his shoulders to steady herself against him, lifting one thigh to wrap it against the roughness of his denim clad leg.

He tugged at her hair with his free hand, capturing her mouth again as she looked up at him, plundering the sweetness of her mouth as she pushed her hands against the slender plains of his chest, her palms against his nipples as her tongue tangled with his, drawing a moan from him. Then he slipped his fingers from her hair and wrapped his arm around her waist, holding her pressed against him as he reached behind himself and pulled off both shirts, tossing them aside.

She gasped, pulling back from the kiss to press her lips against his chest nipping at his skin as his fingertips teased against the edge of her lace panties, slipped inside and teased in the wetness there, slender fingers gliding through her soaked softness, teasing her clit before circling her entrance and drawing a soft mew from her. She pressed herself against his hand.

“Rush…!” she gasped, and clung to him, her fingernails tightening against his shoulders as he slipped one long finger inside of her, the side of his hand pressing lightly against her swollen nub, barely moving, but enough to fill her with an increased, trembling need.

He leaned down, his teeth nipping at her neck, her pulse, the sweep of his tongue soothing the sharpness, his arm slid from around her waist to press against the backs of her thighs, supporting her as he lifted her, and she wrapped her other leg around his waist as he turned moved the few steps to the bed, tumbling the both of them on top of the photographs - heedless, and she pressed up against him again, bucking against his hand, wanting more - needing more. She began to tug at his belt with hands that trembled with the strength of her need.

She all but whined softly, voicing that need when his touch slipped from inside her, just as his belt came loose, just as she tugged at the button and slipped her own hand against the scalding heat, and steel hardness nested within the tightness of his jeans. Then she clung to him, to his shoulders, before pushing up against his chest, and framing his hips with her parted thighs, pressing against him through his opened fly, as he rolled them, and reached up to tug at the zipper at the back of her dress… as soon as he had it open, she snatched at her skirt, crossed her arms and lifted the dress off over her head.

* * *

Rush gasped at the sight of her as she straddled him in just her blue lace bra and barely there lace panties. He grasped her hips as she straddled him, wild and lost in passion as he ground her against him - though she seemed to need little encouragement - and rolled against her wet sex.

He reached up, sliding his palms along her sides and sweeping inwards to cup her breast; the lace all that separated her from his touch. His thumbs teased her through that lace, and she moaned and pressed against his hands, opening her eyes to look at him. They were dark with desire, her lips parted in a soft intake of breath at each pass of the pad of his thumb before she reached behind her, unhooked the garment’s fastening, and tossed it aside to land with her discarded dress, the firm globes of her breast spilling into his waiting hands.

He pushed up against her, aching and trapped within his remaining clothing, trembled as her fingers brushed him again through the cotton of his shorts, beneath the heat of her core. He leaned up on his elbows to take the swollen, puckered nub of one nipple into his mouth, his teeth tugging, his tongue swirling, drawing a cry from her as he nipped, and then pressed open mouthed kisses over the curving mound of her breast to reach the other, murmuring as he went, his voice rasping and ragged.

“Take them off.”

He watched with heavy lidded eyes as she moved away enough to tug at the waistband of his jeans and shorts, all in one smooth motion, pulling them down over his thighs until he could wriggle out of them, ridding herself of her own remaining garment, before she moved to let her head fall against his pillow. She caught his hand as she did, and he entwined their fingers, taking the hint, moving with her, to briefly cover her, and tease between her folds with the heat of him, before kissing down over her belly. He released her hand to lift her thighs, to part her legs and lift them up over his shoulders, nuzzling his nose through the trim curls covering her soft folds, before plundering her sweetness with his mouth, tasting her, pulling at her with his lips, his stubble scratching lightly at her as he swept his tongue over her clit. She moaned softly, and ground against him.

“More…” she gasped, and teasing, slowly, he pressed a finger, then a second inside of her, still lapping at her, drinking the sweet nectar of her want, her need. Drawing his fingers almost all the way out from her before plunging them back inside. He closed his mouth around her clit and suckled, and she bucked against him as though trying to escape. “Oh, God!”

He moved and sucked stronger and with more rapid, gliding thrusts, feeling her body tighten beneath him, feeling her inner walls squeezing his fingers, knowing she was close. He pressed himself against the bed, seeking to release a little of the pressure building in him, the need for her touch, the need to bury himself inside of her.

He continued the rhythm of the in and out glide of his fingers, flicking his eyes up to rest on her face, to watch the tightness of sweet agony become the open mouthed beatific cry of fulfilment as she came apart at his touch, and removing his fingers he pushed his tongue inside her, lapping at her juices, drinking her sweetness as though she were water in the dessert, and he a dying man.

She lifted her hips, riding out her climax against the hungry press of his tongue, his nose against her clit, until she reached for him, her fingers clutching at his shoulders as she gasped, “Inside me…”

“Belle…!” he growled, rising over her, moaning as she reached between them and closed her hand around his length, her thighs parting to either side of him as he moved, and guided him until he pressed against her heat briefly, before he slowly gilded deep inside her, right to the hilt.

He moaned, a long, low sound, and she let out a keening cry of her own, her still burning need given voice. For a moment they both stilled, pressed against each other, her fingers pushed into his hair, damp and tangled with her juices, and they moved together to kiss deeply, with rising desperate passion, until he reached for her fingers, entwining them with his own and pressing them to the top of the bed as he began to slowly withdraw, and thrust inside again, deeply, slowly, taking her completely with each thrust, pressing against her so deeply that his balls pressed against her, between then. Twitching slightly, her tight, inner walls squeezed him. She moved with him, lifted her thighs around him again, and rocked with him, their shared rhythm becoming faster, harder, consuming. He knew he wasn’t going to last.

Her trembling beneath him told him neither would she last. She gasped with breathy voiced moans with each movement, each thrust, each pull against her tightness, the sound of her pleasure only increasing his own. He wanted to feel her come around him, to feel the pulse of her squeeze him, claim him… 

“Rush!” she gasped, a breathless whisper, gripping him so tightly inside her that it was almost painful, but such sweet pain, as the trembling of light pushed behind his eyes, demanding admittance. Then, in the following moment, she fell, coming so hard around him that it stole his breath, with a sharp, almost shrill cry of fulfilment and summons that he could no more deny her than he could stop breathing, and he followed her, white light and colored sparks burst inside him, and with an almost sobbing cry of his own he spilled himself deep within her as she squeezed him… milked him dry.

Into the silence that was disturbed only by their labored breathing, spent, he collapsed onto her, nestling his head into the crook of her neck as she wrapped her trembling arms around him. She ran her fingers into his hair and he allowed himself the moment, the solace of her caress, before he pushed himself up onto his elbows, looking down on her, her eyes still closed, her face a picture of bliss.

He kissed her then, just softly, and she responded with the lazy peace of post-coital contentment. When they broke apart, he carefully left the safe haven of her body, and rolled to the side, though not yet ready to let her go. He drew her with him, in his own turn running his fingers through her hair, drawing quiet mewling sounds from her as she snuggled closer, and laid her bent leg over the top of one of his, her arm resting across his belly.

* * *

Belle sighed softly, cherishing the moment, the warmth of his body, his arms around her, his fingers running through her hair, and making small circles against the small of her back. It drew the occasional twitch from her, when his fingers brushed just the right spot.

“Nicholas…? Nick…?” she breathed against his neck, and felt him shift a little against her and heard the rumble of a tiny moan beginning in his chest.

“Rush is fine,” he whispered; a hoarse whisper, as though he somehow couldn’t speak.

“Fine,” she echoed the last of his words. She sighed again, and then lay in silence holding, and being held, just breathing together. Nothing more until something occurred to her, and with a slightly teasing tone in her voice, she said, “You’re still wrong.”

That drew a low, languid chuckle from him, and he craned his neck a little to look down at her, as she looked up.

“Trying for round two…?  _ Miss _ French?”

**Author's Note:**

> Damn it, I think I may just have had a stupid crazy idea!


End file.
